The Party
by Mark Richards
Summary: Star Wars fan-fiction. At the Imperial Palace, Emperor Palpatine decides to celebrate!


The Party 

By Mark Richards 

The Party is dedicated to Jason Grant for encouraging me not only to write this story, but also for showing me through his own work, how to be funny. Also thanks for agreeing to use his characters Acen Hunter and Alex Stern, reading through the finished story, and for inventing that most eloquent of Star Wars swear words: frag! 

Finally, and in no way least, for being a support throughout all that I have done. 

The orchestra may have been small, but it certainly wasn't restrained in the enthusiasm with which it pounded out its myriad of accomplished songs and popular music. But enthusiasm was something seriously lacking from the guests at a party, where everyone was in competition with everyone else. This was a clash of egos, of megalomania on a grand scale. There were no friends here, only opportunities. Where else could it be? Imperial Palace, Coruscant. 

Two of the biggest egotists the Empire had ever seen were there as well, facing a showdown as many of the guests expected and hoped, before the evening was out. Little did they know that the entertainment later that evening would certainly be spectacular, but it wasn't to come from who they thought... 

Vader, the first of the protagonists, swept grandly into the brightly lit Grand Hall of the Imperial Palace, his cloaks swirling impressively behind him, flanked by a stormtrooper guard. The announcer on the door, boomed loudly into the public address: "Lord Darth Vader, Supreme Commander, Imperial Forces. Dark Lord of the Sith." The already gathered guests were suitably awed, clearing a path for the advancing form of the Sith. Vader marched the length of the cavernous hall, to the main podium, and the specially erected throne. There, the Emperor was slouched, surrounded by the most precious of his dancing girls, holding an ornate goblet filled almost to the point of over-flowing with Tyria wine. Vader reverently kneeled, not thinking to mention to his stormtoopers his intention, as they filed directly into the Dark Lord, slipping and tripping on his trailing cloak. Vader barely noticed the commotion as his honour guard slammed face down onto the duracrete floor. A few muffled giggles came from the guests, but they soon stopped as Vader was beckoned to rise by the Emperor. "You have done well my friend," the Emperor slurred, oblivious to the mess of white armour littering the floor. Here we go again, `the best mates' speech, Vader thought darkly. "Now I sense that you wish to join the party." "Yes, my master." Vader stated flatly, barely concealing his annoyance at the disturbance behind him, as the stormtrooper escort struggled to their feet. He was about to turn his fearsome stare on the troop leader, when the Emperor rejoined: "Well, what are you waiting for?" 

Vader mingled with the throng of guests, as the second of that evening's megalomaniacs made a less than impressive arrival. The snow-white uniform of Grand Admiral Thrawn marched arrogantly up to the entrance. The Royal Guard placed his Force Pike in the path of Thrawn, bringing the Grand Admiral to a stop. The Imperial officer who was vetting the arriving guests, stepped up to Thrawn. "Yes, and who do you think you are?" Obviously he had not been told about the Emperor's new Grand Admirals. "I am Grand Admiral Thawn," he huffed. "Yeah, and I'm Luke Skywalker." "Unlikely, commander," Thrawn rebutted, "I have studied the art of Tatooine, and I know that Luke Skywalker would not use such a disguise. In fact, it is unlikely that..." "Okay," the commander snapped. He spoke into his com-link: "Dian, it looks like we've got another one of those crack-pots over here. Can you get security over - looks like we're going to have to detain this one." Thrawn's red eyes flashed with contempt. The Imperial officer put his hand up to shield his own eyes. "And would you switch that thing off, whatever it is!" 

About an hour later, after having his identity verified by Kaliq Joff, the Grand Admiral at last made his less than grand entrance. The announcer proudly began: "Grand Admiral Thrawn." The guests looked stunned. "Tamer of the Emperor's Unknown Regions." They looked bemused. "Conqueror of the Shangar & Tagish systems." Now they were bored. "Captain of the Star Destroyer Admonitor." The party had already moved on, forgetting whom the announcer was even talking about. The announcer looked sympathetically at Thrawn. "Sorry sir, but they don't have a frag of an idea who you are." Thrawn dimissed him, beginning his grand walk to the Emperor's throne, which soon turned into an ugly scuffle as he had to fight his way through the crowds that simply refused to move for some idiot in a white uniform with funny red eyes. After all what a disguise in the heat of battle - a brilliant white uniform on a grey Star Destroyer - he should be a target for miles. 

Little did they know, that Thrawn had been bestowed the ultimate honour by the Emperor, the highest rank in the Imperial Navy; Grand Admiral. He was now only second to Lord Darth Vader, a fact that the Dark Lord was still trying to overcome. It was no matter, tonight was a cause for celebration, and Vader intended to forget the Emperor's announcement that afternoon. He was even getting into the mood of the party, gliding around the many guests, and dipping in on the most interesting conversations. He did ponder for a few moments why each group he came to listen too, fell into stunned silence at his arrival. Some made hurried excuses to be elsewhere, or to fill their glasses with more Tyria wine, which flowed in abundance. A few stayed, straying from the exciting tales that had attracted him, into barely concealed exaltations at the wondrous Empire. He would stay, cocking his head occasionally to one side, to pick up what was being said elsewhere. Few realised that underneath that mask was concealed superior visual and auditory senses, and the Dark Lord could home in on any conversation he wished. And when he had found the latest area of gossip he would proceed to find out more, only to be disappointed, as they again fell into silence, bowing reverently at every opportunity. One fool, even insisted on bowing at the end of every sentence. If there was one thing he couldn't stand it was formality when he was trying to let his hair down. He smiled to himself, metaphorically speaking of course, because he didn't have any hair. 

Yes, this was such a difference to blowing up a Rebel Base somewhere, or watching the embarrassing faux pas of his stormtroopers as they crowded around a target only to miss it completely. He made a mental note to mention it to the Emperor - perhaps they should get those helmets checked out. When Jawa's could evade an entire squad of his troops, there had to be something amiss... 

Presently the orchestra had taken a momentary pause, while the Emperor took the stage. Vader was baffled at the look of "what's that son of a mynock up to now" in the faces of many of the guests. Soon he realised their concern, as the Emperor, suddenly burst into a raucous rendition of Lapti Nek, that ever-popular ditty at Jabba's Palace - at least it was until they had the recent refurb. done. Dozens of aides rushed forwards, to hurry the supreme ruler off stage, as he burst into the second chorus - "Lapti nek, gotta work those thighs, gotta break the sweat..." But it was too late, the dignity of the Emperor was already lost as he let break more than just sweat. For those who watched carefully, or were standing too close, clearly saw the sudden gust that raised Palpatine's cloaks. For all those within range there could be no doubt, as violent guffaws erupted amongst the aides that had come to assist the inebriated Emperor. 

Vader turned away, not sure that he could watch much more. After all he had that important meeting with the Emperor about looking for Skywalker in the morning, and he didn't think his scar tissue could cope with too much straining. Instead, he took another sip through the specially equipped pipe from his face grille, of Tyria wine. It had also been a long time since he had had a drink as well, and he was beginning to realise why. Then as the orchestra got into full swing mood with one of his favourites - "I Lost My Heart to a Sith Lord" - he sub-consciously started tapping his right foot in beat to the music. 

Elsewhere around the majestic opulence of the Grand Hall in the Imperial Palace, the Emperor was being carefully re-seated. After the performance on the stage, his aides wanted to ensure they could at least reach minimum safe distance if it should happen again. His dancing girls didn't seem to be put off by the Emperor's less than pleasant manners, except for Lianna who... 

...now stood with Grand Admiral Thrawn in the main assemblage wing of the Imperial Palace, looking disinterestedly at the picture that had so captured the blue-skinned alien. "Do you see that wonderful, sweeping use of reds and yellows to the top and left of the picture," he was saying, crossing his arms, resting his fingers on his chin in concentration. "Definitely fiery, passionate art. Most certainly good in battle, real fighters." "Yes, very interesting Thrawn," Lianna said, really bored by the Grand Admiral's tedious demonstration that he really knew nothing about warfare at all, but everything about the aesthetics of art. "What is the point of all this, anyway. I came here to discuss more important matters." Thrawn looked at her hard for a moment, nothing revealed in his red eyes. "The point is Lianna, that art is the key to victory. Through understanding a species art, you understand their role in combat, and..." The Grand Admiral rumbled on, as Lianna serenely slipped into a deep sleep. 

Kaliq Joff, looked around uneasily. He hated parties, especially ones that the Emperor threw. The Emperor insisted on keeping him isolated from the hierarchy most of the time, so he seldom knew more than a dozen or so people, and he wasn't a particularly gregarious person anyway, so making conversation was never easy. His confidence hadn't improved following the last one he was at. It was Thrawn's fault for introducing him to Forvish ale, what a really potent liquor that was! He had never been able to live down his welcome to Wilhuff Tarkin, who he spoonerised as the Grand Wuff Farkin. Matters had only been made worse, when he had attempted a bow, managing to knock the Grand Moff off his feet. At least there was one consolation this time, the Grand Moff would not be making an appearance... 

Vader marched around the Grand Hall, missing all the important gossip, wherever he went, but occasionally finding someone who was prepared to spend a few moments with him. The young lady, Greasha, and her baby looked sweet and innocent enough to the Dark Lord, but little did he know they were part of a Rebel assassination mission. The Rebel's had become increasingly desperate, trying to build on their success at Yavin, and Vader was one of the chief problems. Well, along with getting Princess Leia a haircut that people could believe in. 

"Its such an honour to meet you, my Lord," Greasha said bowing. Vader was flattered. He nodded. "And your child, how old?" "About four months, my Lord. He's a real bundle of trouble. He's so strong. You know the other day he was watching the Holonet, and he managed to lift our protocol droid right off his feet." "He has a special talent," the Dark Lord boomed, suddenly interested in the child, who obviously had latent Force powers. Vader thought darkly: he would be a powerful ally. "May I hold him a while," Vader asked. "Oh, yes, why of course," Greasha beamed. Good, he's taken the bait. The little baby looked up into the face of Darth Vader, his round innocent eyes gazing deep into the visual receptors of Vader's mask. Vader was entranced by the baby's sweet face, not noticing the little fingers that found their way around the control panel on his chest. Suddenly the rhythmic breathing of Vader stopped, and he was gasping for air, the baby giggling with pride. Lights flashed with alarm all over the Dark Lord's life-support panel. Soon a crowd was gathering around Vader, as his body started to spasm, desperately gripping the laughing infant in one arm, while the other searched desperately for the oxygen switch. Then matters just got worse. A shadow fell across the floor as the striding ramrod straight figure of white moved towards him. Grand Admiral Thrawn. Vader could barely tolerate the man at the best of times, and now was not a good moment. 

Meanwhile aides, that had just recovered the Emperor from his embarrassing performance, now hurried to help the baby that was being swung wildly by Lord Vader. Fearing that the infant would be thrown across the Grand Hall, one of the aides snatched the giggling child from Vader's hand, whisking it away from the rapidly dying Lord of the Sith. More as an after-thought, he cocked his head at the sudden and loud whining: "beeeeeeeeeeeeeep...." that was coming from somewhere nearby. As he turned, he saw Lord Vader slump to the floor, clearly lifeless. Noticing the out of place switch on Vader's control panel, he flicked it back into the "on" position. The silent dark form abruptly choked back to life, Vader forcing in deep breaths, filling his lungs with purified air. The assembled guests muttered barely muted disappointment. Darth Vader was safe, and the Rebel mission had failed, and with resignation the crowd dissipated fearing that the evenings entertainment had come to an end. 

Vader regained his feet and his composure, just as Thrawn came to a stop in front of him, clicking the heels of his boots together, saluting Darth Vader. For a moment the Dark Lord pretended that he hadn't seen the Grand Admiral by sipping noisily from a tankard of Forvish ale. It was a rather unconvincing move, as Thrawn stood barely three-foot in front of him. The Grand Admiral was patient though. He knew to expect this, why only this morning he had immersed himself in a study of Sithian art... 

"Lord Vader, it's a pleasure to see you here," he greeted warmly, if it hadn't been for the way he gritted his teeth as he said it. Vader's head suddenly snapped round to bring his imposing mask to bear on the Grand Admiral. Thrawn's eyes flashed with crimson challenge, while his thin lips quivered in an attempt to maintain composure. The pipe that had once been dipped in the Forvish ale now hung uselessly from the grille of Vader's mask, like a searching proboscis of a fly. The Dark Lord had obviously not seen reason to remove it, or had forgotten that it was there at all. "You may dispense with the pleasantries, Thrawn," Vader rumbled, enjoying the sound of his voice through his vocal amplifier. Unfortunately the sound that emerged was squeaked through the hanging pipe in his grille. Thrawn rubbed his chin thoughtfully, debating whether he should tell Darth Vader that with the pipe stuck in his mask, not only did he look ridiculous, but he also sounded like a protocol droid on helium. No, he thought, it was much more fun this way. "Indeed, my Lord," Thrawn continued, sipping from his glass of R'alla water. "This is truly a great occasion for the Empire. At last the twelve Grand Admirals are assembled, and the final crushing of the Rebellion is in sight. Of course the Empire's finest victory will come in the Unknown Regions under my command, where the real battle for the galaxy is to be fought." Vader watched Thrawn closely, wondering what the comment meant. Was it another one of those absurd art theories? "I am sure that you will find much to crush in the Unknown Regions, Thrawn," Vader squeaked. "Indeed," the Grand Admiral smiled. "And what of our arrangement?" Arrangement? The man was a fool. The dark breath mask remained silent. "Ar-range-ment," the Grand Admiral started slowly, thinking that perhaps Vader's audio sensors had been affected in the recent incident. "Black Sun." Vader took in a sharp intake of breath. Yes, he'd forgotten about that. Underneath his emotionless mask, he let a smile cross his lips, albeit briefly. "I will have the all the mission details at our agreed rendezvous." "And the bargain?" Thrawn persisted. "It remains on offer, if you can fulfil the mission objectives." Vader smiled again. He had been searching for a way to get rid of those damned Noghri for years. They followed him around like some lost vornskr hunting a Jedi Master, and they were the worst assassins the Empire had ever employed. He had pleaded with Emperor to have Honoghr destroyed, but Palpatine insisted that the Noghri would have their use for the Empire. But the trouble was Palpatine didn't have to deal with clearing up the daily mess as another innocent target was neutralised. Sending them to abduct someone was almost as covert as having a whole battalion of his stormtroopers walk into a cantina. They drew too much attention, and besides they were damned ugly. Yes, Thrawn could have them if he desperately wanted them. Although just what use they would be in the Unknown Regions remained to be seen. Perhaps Thrawn intended to train them as art collectors or something... 

Just as the Grand Admiral was about to salute and leave the Dark Lord, a scuffle erupted at the entrance to the Grand Hall. Both Vader and Thrawn turned to see what the disturbance was. Two ISB agents trying to gatecrash the party. 

"...and I told you I didn't get dressed up for nothing," the younger agent, Acen Hunter was saying. The Royal Guard that stood at the entrance remained unmoved. "Without official invitations, I am sorry, but you are not allowed in." "C'mon this is ridiculous," the paler-skinned and older Alex Stern remonstrated. "We've helped old prune face in there dozens of times, least he could do was send us an invitation." "Yeah," Alex rejoined, really fired up now. "To think we've put our lives on the line for that old fossil... "That's enough!" came the stern rebuttal of an Imperial Officer. "And you are?" he said looking disdainfully at the two agents. "Alex Stern, ISB," he said, flicking open his ID pass. "Acen Hunter, ISB," said the more boyish-looking agent, also flashing his pass. The Imperial officer remained unimpressed, while unbeknownst to him, there was a sizeable crowd gathering to see what was going on. "What is the problem here, guard?" he said turning to the brilliant crimson garbed protector. "They don't have official invitations for the party, sir. My orders are to refuse entry to anyone who has not been given formal invitations, sir" The Imperial officer seemed satisfied. "There you have it boys. I am afraid you're not welcome here. Good evening." He turned on his heel, expecting the two ISB agents to obediently depart, but they weren't shifting, at least not to leave. On the contrary they stormed the guard, toppling the six-foot plus tall protector, who was taken completely unaware. Hunter, in his enthusiasm jumped on the back of the guard, pinning him to the floor between his thighs. Stern, meanwhile maintained a little more dignity, grabbing the officer, and stealing his gun from its holster. 

An excited crowd was now gathered around the two ISB agents. A scream came form somewhere deep in the audience. "Oh, my! He's on top of him!" Everyone looked around for the prissy voiced protocol droid, no one suspecting that it had come from Lord Vader. An audible gasp came from the audience, as a squad of white-armoured stormtroopers entered from the left. Thrawn shook his head in his hand, seeing that this could soon turn into a real public relations disaster. He would have to mention to the Emperor that for some reason the Empire's elite couldn't see four-foot in front of them through those damned masks. What was it with this Empire - everyone have to cover their face because they were so damned ugly or something? But look at the Emperor, he obviously didn't care... 

Hunter silently swore under his breath as he saw the stormtroopers crowd in, while trying desperately to stop his quarry from wriggling away underneath him. He shouted across to his colleague. "Alex, look! We've got troopers!" Stern was having an equally hard time keeping a grip on his own prisoner, even with a blaster pointed to the officer's head. "Yeah, no problem!" As he turned, wondering what the frag he was going to do next, a gasp erupted from the audience as the lead stormtrooper tripped over the Force Pike that had been sent sprawling across the floor, as Acen had attacked the guard. Then another sharp in-take of breath from the audience, as one by one, the squad of fifteen stormtroopers crashed into their increasing number of fallen comrades. Thrawn could watch no more, turning away, as his normally blue skin threatened to flush with the same crimson as his eyes. 

Acen couldn't believe it himself, and for a moment, relaxed his firm grip on the Royal Guard lying under him. Before he realised what was happening, the guard was tossing him off his back, reaching desperately underneath his tangled cloaks for his concealed blaster pistol. Acen landed onto the hard duracrete floor with a loud bang, nearly knocking himself unconscious. He lay there stunned and dazed, while the gathered audience let out another collective sigh as the melee of white armoured troops clambered back to their feet, some clearly disorientated in the fall. One in particular, for some apparent reason had the idea, that the Royal Guard, now fumbling most ridiculously with his under garments, was one of the ISB agents. In a blink of an eye, the stormtrooper unloaded five rounds of his blaster squarely into the chest of the guard... 

( Mark Richards, September 1998 


End file.
